


Too Little, Too Late

by ruric



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: fic_promptly, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-25
Updated: 2010-10-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22533724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: Written for jadedmusings 2010 prompt: Supernatural, Jo/Dean, too late
Relationships: Jo Harvelle & Dean Winchester
Collections: fic_promptly Fills 2010





	Too Little, Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> Written for jadedmusings 2010 prompt: Supernatural, Jo/Dean, too late

He remembers her in the roadhouse, smart tongued and sassy, a gun in her hands and the angry spark in her eye that said she wouldn't be afraid to pull the trigger if he pushed her or flip the gun around and beat him senseless with the other end.

He saw so much of himself in her; in her eyes that'd seen too much too young, the pain of losing a parent she respected, in her inability to back down and the need to seek out a fight and win. 

There was so much of Sam in her too; when she snuck away from the roadhouse and followed them, in the way she could research a subject as well as Sammy could seeing connections and links that Dean never can quite see as clearly as they can.

The way she threw herself into a hunt, the way she courted danger and put herself at risk without a second thought – he'd always thought that was a pure Winchester trait but after knowing Jo and seeing her in action he's wondering whether all the kids of hunters grow up with the crazy-ass, reckless, devil may care attitude because they god damn _know_ what's out there and what's coming.

He remembers when Sammy was possessed by the demon that fled Meg Masters, how he tortured her with mind games. But afterwards her small hands were gentle on Dean's bruised and bloodied skin, cleaning, stitching and patching him back together. Her eyes were bright with anger, her lips pressed tight with worry but not a word slipped past them other than a soft "be careful."

He remembers getting up from the table, looking down into her eyes and telling her he'd call then turning and walking away and leaving her – all the while knowing Hell had a better chance of freezing over than he would in picking up a phone to call her. 

He thought it was for the best, doing what he could to protect her – but she's always been a hunter's kid just like him, like Sam, and who the hell was he to think it was his business to protect her? She didn't need or want his protection, she'd needed his understanding and support and he'd held back when he should've given her everything he had.

He remembers every time he's seen her, every minute he's spent with her, knowing four or five years can be measured out in a span of hours and days not weeks or months.

The last night they'd all spent at Bobby's she'd asked if he was giving her the "last night on earth" speech and maybe he should have, maybe it would have worked, maybe they could have had something. Or maybe she'd have still shot him down just the way she did.

Jo deserved more than _something_ , she deserved to be somebody's everything, not just a desperate frantic and clumsy tumble because tomorrow they may die.

But tomorrow's here and she's dying, bleeding out on the floor in front of him and there's damn all he or Sam or Ellen can do to stop it.

Jo's a hunter, she always has been, and for once they've listened to her because she has the only workable plan. She's turned the tables on them all, becoming the adult who knows what needs doing and facing that truth unflinchingly making them jump to her tune. Out of respect they've done it – the bombs are set and the fuse laid, the switch is cradled in his hands.

Sam moves out of the way and Dean crouches next to her because he's always been shit at goodbyes and saying the words that matter. 

"This is it."

She looks up at him and she's as white as a sheet, her lips almost blue, blood seeping through the bandage and spilling over her fingers.

"See you on the other side probably sooner than later."

It's a dick move to try and use humor but it's all him and her lips twitch just a little, a hint of a smile showing past the soft gasp of pain.

"Make it later."

He can't look at her, can't stand to see the death in her eyes because it's not fair. It shouldn't be her sitting here bleeding out. It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

He takes her hand, presses the trigger into her palm and closes her fingers around it. Wraps his own hands around hers because they're cold, so cold, and if he could keep her warm, if he could save her he would, but they all know they can't.

He knows she's waiting, waiting for him to find the guts to look at her so he tears his gaze away from their hands, looks into her eyes and not at her trembling lips. Words won't make any of this better, no matter how pretty they are, so he cups her jaw, leans closer and presses his lips to her forehead and she's so cold. He feels her shiver, feels her swallow and he pulls back to look at her again.

She's trying not to cry so he leans in and presses his lips to hers. 

It's a first kiss, it's soft and gentle and innocent. It's also much, much too little, too late because it’s a last kiss and a farewell kiss too. So he tries to make it an apology for what they could have had if they'd been different people and in different times.

And if he doesn't leave her now he never will, so he presses his forehead to hers again, breathes in the scent of her beyond the blood and fear and pain.

He pushes up and away, leaving her with an "OK" because there's nothing he can say that'll make this better and he doesn't look back.


End file.
